Bailey Glass POV:

"Is he with someone else right now? Is he laughing with another woman? Is he telling her all the things he used to tell me?" The questions still echoed in my mind, even as I rode the bus, ostensibly leaving it all behind.

I stared out the window, watching the city blur by. The gentle rumble of the bus was strangely soothing. A couple of women, sitting a few rows ahead, were deep in conversation. Their voices, though low, carried through the quiet hum of the engine.

"Did you see August Carter's latest interview?" one whispered, her voice conspiratorial.

My stomach clenched. I knew. I knew I shouldn't listen, but I couldn't help it.

"Oh my god, yes!" the other replied, practically gushing. "He and Alana? They're totally dating, right? The way they look at each other..."

"Totally! I mean, who was his girlfriend before? Some graphic designer, right? Bailey something? She was so bland."

"Yeah, practically invisible. No wonder August moved on. Alana's a superstar! They're so much better suited."

My reflection in the bus window seemed duller, paler. Invisible. Bland. The words carved themselves into my skin. I instinctively reached up, touching my cheek. Was I really that forgettable?

A memory flashed, sharp and painful. The early days of August' s career, when he was just starting to get noticed. He refused to go public with our relationship.

"It's better for my career, Bailey," he'd pleaded, his eyes earnest. "Directors want to cast me as the hot, available bachelor. A girlfriend would ruin that image."

I' d reluctantly agreed, though it hurt. It meant attending events separately, hiding our affection, pretending we were just friends around his industry contacts. The unspoken rule was: my existence was a secret.

This led to awkward, painful encounters. At a wrap party for one of his first big projects, a rising starlet openly flirted with him, completely unaware he was taken. He let her. He even laughed at her jokes, his arm around her in a photo op. I stood across the room, watching, my heart a lead weight.

Later that night, I confronted him, tears streaming down my face. "How could you? She was practically hanging all over you! Everyone thinks you're single!"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Don't be so dramatic, Bailey. It's Hollywood. It's how things are done. I told you, it's for my career." He called me "unreasonable."

I stood my ground. "No, August. This isn't just 'how things are done.' This is disrespectful. It makes me feel like I don't matter."

He eventually relented. A week later, he posted a single blurry photo of us on his Instagram, a caption that simply read, "My girl." It was a victory, I thought then. A small one, but a victory nonetheless.

But the relief was short-lived. His fans, or rather, their fans-the ones who shipped him with his female co-stars-exploded. My comment section became a war zone.

"Who is this random girl?" "August deserves better!" "She's trying to ride his coattails!"

Then came the fan accounts, fueled by Alana Edwards, who was already a social media darling. They created elaborate fanfictions, painting August and Alana as star-crossed lovers, destined to be together. In their narratives, I was the villain, the clingy, undeserving girlfriend holding August back.

One post, in particular, stuck with me. A fan wrote a sprawling, dramatic essay about how August was "too loyal for his own good," trapped in a relationship he didn't truly want, simply out of a sense of obligation to me. He's only with her because he feels sorry for her, the post implied. He' s too much of a gentleman to break her heart.

The worst part? Alana, seemingly innocently, would often engage with these fan posts. A cryptic "like" here, a "thank you for your support!" there. She played the part of the sweet, vulnerable artist to perfection.

One night, after August had finally posted that photo, Alana messaged me directly. It was late, past midnight.

"Hey Bailey! So glad August finally made things official. The fans were getting a little wild, haha. Just wanted to say, I'm always here if you need a friend!" It was accompanied by a string of heart emojis.

I stared at the message, a cold dread creeping through me. A friend? It felt less like an olive branch and more like a warning shot. I didn't know her, not really. We' d hardly ever spoken. This sudden overture felt… calculated.

When I showed August, he brushed it off. "See? She's so sweet. Just trying to be supportive."

"Supportive?" I asked, my voice rising. "Or is she trying to stake her claim? She's not as 'innocent' as you think, August."

He sighed, exasperated. "You always think the worst of people. She's just being kind. You're just... sensitive." He squeezed my shoulder dismissively. "You' re not like those other girls, all competitive and fake. That' s why I love you."

"Am I 'simple', August?" I asked, my voice tight. "Is that what you mean?"

He gave a soft, patronizing laugh. "No, no, baby. Just… less complicated. And that's a good thing! Anyway, I' m exhausted. Let' s not talk about this anymore."

I watched him walk away, feeling a chill. He loved me because I was "less complicated"? Less of a threat? And Alana, who was exactly my age, was so "sweet" and "innocent." It was another brick in the wall of my growing disillusionment.

Bailey Glass POV:

"Am I 'simple', August? Is that what you mean?" The question had hung in the air, unanswered, a silent accusation. Now, as the bus rumbled towards my uncertain future, a familiar sound cut through my thoughts.

The blare of a news report from someone else's phone. It was the theme music for a popular entertainment show. Right. August's new series had a big public event today. A press conference, maybe? My finger, still raw from constantly scrolling through his social media, hovered over the thought of checking it. But I resisted. No more.

Then, the bus driver, bored during a red light, flicked on his small screen. An entertainment channel. My heart sank. There August was, front and center. And beside him, Alana Edwards.

The headline scrolled beneath them: "Alana Edwards Battles Online Trolls as Co-Star August Carter Steps Up."

Alana. She looked fragile, her eyes red-rimmed. She dabbed at them delicately with a tissue. She was addressing the rumors, the "vicious attacks" from anonymous online accounts.

"It's just so hard," she choked out, her voice trembling. "I just want to be judged for my art, not for... for these cruel lies."

The cameras zoomed in on her tear-filled eyes. The audience, a mix of reporters and fans, murmured sympathetically.

Then August, my August, stepped forward. He put a comforting hand on Alana's back, a gesture so tender it made my throat ache. He then turned to the cameras, his face etched with fierce protectiveness.

"This online harassment has to stop," he declared, his voice strong and clear. "Alana is a talented, kind, and vulnerable artist. To attack her like this, to spread such baseless rumors… it's despicable." He looked directly into the lens, his gaze intense. "We, as a society, need to be better. We need to stand up against online bullying."

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips. It was a choked, rasping sound that startled the woman next to me. She looked at me with concern, then, seeing my face, offered me a tissue. I took it, my hand shaking.

I felt the tears welling up, hot and fast. Not for Alana, not for August, but for myself. For the naive, foolish woman I had been. I couldn't stop them. They streamed down my face, blurring the image of August, my knight in shining armor, defending his damsel.

The woman beside me, seeing my distress, patted my arm gently. "Are you okay, dear?"

I shook my head, unable to speak. The embarrassment was a fresh wave of heat. Crying on a public bus. How fitting. How utterly pathetic.

"Next stop, Santa Monica Pier," the driver announced.

I scrambled up, half-blinded by tears. "Thank you," I mumbled to the kind stranger, then stumbled off the bus, needing to escape, needing to breathe.

The salty air hit my face, a stark contrast to the stifling heat on the bus. I walked aimlessly, the sound of the ocean a distant roar. My mind replayed August's impassioned speech. This online harassment has to stop.

He preached about online bullying, about protecting vulnerable artists. Yet, when I was the target of vicious, sustained online attacks, when my social media was flooded with hateful comments, when my personal details were dug up and shared by his rabid fans, where was he?

He was absent. He was "too busy." He was "in character."

"It's part of the game, Bailey," he'd said once, when I showed him a particularly vile comment that wished me dead. "Just ignore it. Don't feed the trolls."

Ignore it? How could I ignore the death threats, the relentless body shaming, the accusations of being a gold digger? One fan had even found my old high school photos and posted them online, mocking my teenage acne. They called me "ugly," "fat," "talentless." They said I wasn't "worthy" of August.

I remembered the sleepless nights, the frantic searches for my own name, the panic attacks that left me gasping for air. I lost weight. My hair started falling out. The doctor had prescribed medication, telling me I was suffering from severe anxiety and depression.

When August finally came home after a long shoot, I was a wreck. I showed him the articles, the comments, the alarming messages.

He patted my head, a dismissive gesture. "There, there, baby. It's almost over. The show's wrapped. Just a little longer." He hugged me briefly, a perfunctory embrace, then turned his attention to his packed suitcase. "I've got an early flight tomorrow. Another press tour."

I used to think he was just emotionally unavailable, a product of his intense, self-absorbed craft. That his "method acting" made him distant, but that his love for me was always there, simmering beneath the surface. I made excuses for him, rationalized his neglect. He just didn't understand, I told myself. He loved me in his own way.

But watching him now, on that screen, fiercely defending Alana, his eyes blazing with a protectiveness he' d never shown me… it was a brutal awakening. The man who had dismissed my suffering as "overreacting" was now a champion against injustice for another woman.

He wasn't incapable of empathy. He just chose where to direct it. And it wasn't towards me.

I felt a cold, hard certainty settle in my bones. I wasn't just forgettable. I was a fool. And I was done being one.

Bailey Glass POV:

"I wasn't just forgettable. I was a fool." The realization was a heavy stone in my stomach, weighing me down, yet pushing me forward.

Two days later, I booked a flight. One-way. To Portland, Oregon. My hometown. My escape. The final act of defiance.

Before leaving, I had one last appointment. A follow-up at the hospital, for my anxiety and depression. It felt like a symbolic closure, a medical stamp on the end of an era.

The hospital was bustling, but a section of the main lobby was cordoned off. A small crowd had gathered, craning their necks, whispering excitedly. Bright lights glared, and a cluster of technicians moved around, shouting instructions. Filming. Of course. This was LA.

I sighed, already tired of the spectacle. I just wanted to get my check-up and leave. I skirted the edges of the crowd, keeping my head down, avoiding eye contact.

Then, I heard a familiar voice. That deep, resonant laugh. My blood ran cold. I risked a glance.

There he was. August. He was in costume, looking impossibly handsome, surrounded by his entourage. And right beside him, a vision in a white dress, was Alana Edwards. They were filming a scene. My scene. A scene I' d written in my head countless times, a scene where he would finally see me, protect me, choose me. But I wasn't the star.

He turned, his eyes sweeping across the crowd. For a split second, our gazes locked. His brow furrowed. A flicker of surprise, then something unreadable, crossed his face. He started to move towards me, a slight hesitation in his step.

But I wasn't waiting. I turned on my heel, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I didn't care what he saw, what he thought. I was done. I kept walking, faster and faster, until his face, his image, was just another fading memory in the rearview mirror of my life.

I didn't hear him call my name. Or maybe I did, and I chose to ignore it. Either way, I didn't stop.

Behind me, I vaguely heard Alana's voice, high-pitched and inquisitive. "August, who was that?"

I could almost picture his strained smile, his vague answer. Just an old acquaintance. Or perhaps, My girlfriend. The irony was thick enough to choke on. The girlfriend he was abandoning, just as he was becoming the man he always said he would.

Meanwhile, August stood there, watching my retreating back. He clenched his jaw. Alana, ever the observant co-star, tugged gently on his sleeve. "August? Everything okay?"

He managed a tight smile. "Fine, Alana. Just… a little distracted." He glanced back at the spot where I'd been. Gone.

"Who was that, really?" Alana pressed, her voice laced with a playful curiosity that held a hint of steel.

He hesitated. "Just Bailey. My… girlfriend." The word felt foreign on his tongue now.

Alana scoffed, a delicate, almost imperceptible sound. "Oh, that Bailey. She's always popping up, isn't she? Like she's checking up on you. So clingy."

He winced slightly. "No, she's… she's not like that. She just… gets a little insecure sometimes." He was trying to defend me, but it sounded hollow, even to his own ears. Insecure. His fault. All his fault.

Later, during a break, he scrolled through his phone. He opened our chat. The last message was mine, weeks ago, a mundane update about my flower shop. His last response was a curt "K." A sudden, cold dread settled in his chest. He scrolled further back, then further. Our conversations, once filled with laughter and daily anecdotes, had dwindled to terse replies, mostly from him.

He remembered my constant texts, my calls, my desperate attempts to connect. And how he' d dismissed them, thinking, She's always there. She'll understand.

A growing unease prickled at him. Why had she been at the hospital? Was she sick? He' d been so caught up in the drama with Alana, with his career, that he hadn't noticed the silence growing between us. He' d just assumed I was still "mad" about the livestream, that I'd cool off eventually, like I always did.

He needed to talk to her. To explain. To smooth things over. He dialed my number. It rang once, twice, then went straight to voicemail. Then, a message flashed on his screen: "The number you are trying to reach has been blocked."

Blocked? His face paled. He tried again. Same result. He opened Instagram, then Facebook. His profile. Our shared photos. Gone. My profile. Private.

A cold, heavy fear settled in his gut. This wasn't just a fight. This wasn't just me being "needy." This was… final. He suddenly realized what I'd forgotten to tell him. What I'd forgotten to do. He'd never signed the papers for the graphic design business. The one she said she was selling. It was gone. All of it.